


The Gap Between Wanting And Needing

by theappleppielifestyle



Series: Pack Life [1]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theappleppielifestyle/pseuds/theappleppielifestyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, they're all raging, confused, once-bitten-twice-shy teenagers. With emotional problems. And anger issues.</p>
<p>They're not organized by a long shot. They're a mess, they're fumbling around blindly, they're by no means functioning, and Stiles is sort of 93% sure that they all hate him.</p>
<p>Well, except Scott and Allison. And Boyd.</p>
<p>Lydia and Erica, he's a bit iffy about.</p>
<p>But the others, definitely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gap Between Wanting And Needing

It's not a Scott-and-Allison thing, where everything's sappy-happy and dating montages and they start giggling randomly whenever they think about them.

This is some hardcore self-denial, angsty, 'I'm a big fan of ignoring it until it goes away' shit.

Because, bottom line: Derek isn't a nice person.

He snaps for no reason, kidnaps people, shoves them into walls on a regular basis and is an overall asshole with out-of-proportion emotional problems, including (but not limited to) anger issues.

Or that could be Jackson. It's kind of a common denominator.

Emotional and/or anger issues, that is. 

Anyway, Jackson's not a part of it. Well, he is,  _duh_ \- the pack, the rag-tag bunch of fucked-up teenagers whose grades are plummeting as this whole 'werewolf' thing grows.

Said rag-tag bunch of fucked-up teenagers includes: Isaac, who is apparently a tortured, misunderstood soul who should, in Stiles's opinion, write sad poetry rather than rip people's throats out.

Boyd, who is a nice guy when he doesn't have glowing yellow eyes and isn't beating the shit out of you.

Erica, who lets her hands explore too low in public places, wears shirts that can probably be classified as glorified sports bras, and has a left hook that can send a guy through the drywall.

Lydia, who brings a whole new meaning to _fake it till you make it_. Whose smile falters too often, who is uber-friendly when she wolfs out, who hides her Stanford application letters, and occasionally graces Stiles with a 'hey,' when she passes him in the hall.

They're getting more frequent, he's pretty sure.

Jackson, who lashes out at the wrong people at the wrong time, who trains too hard when he doesn't need to, who might or might not break down in front of the mirror when he's alone and he's too drunk to care.

Allison, who is sort of lethal even on a bad day, and Scott, who isn't as much as an idiot as he used to be. Thank God.

Danny is- nothing, really.

Pack-wise, he means.

Danny doesn't know about any of the 'werewolf' thing-but he's the guy that's fun to hang around, who is there for Jackson to lean on even when he's being a bitch (i.e. all the time, every second, every day, forever), and has once or twice discreetly left some gay porn websites up for Stiles to look at, and had then kindly neglected to mention it after.

Stiles likes him the best.

Basically, they're all raging, confused, once-bitten-twice-shy teenagers. With emotional problems. And anger issues.

As per previously mentioned.

They're not organized by a long shot. They're a mess, they're fumbling around blindly, they're by no means functioning, and Stiles is sort of 93% sure that they all hate him.

Well, except Scott and Allison. And Boyd.

Lydia and Erica, he's a bit iffy about.

But the others, definitely.

Stiles isn't part of the pack, not really- neither is Allison, he thinks. No claws, no game. 

An honorary pack member. Pack-by-association. Kind of.

He sits on the porch of Derek's skeleton-house as they all chase their tails. Often literally.

But they're not a part of the whole 'Derek' thing- and fucking god,  _Derek,_ who isn't even a teenager, who has the mind of a psychopath and the body of a male hooker.

And the lips of a fucking angel. An angel with a great dick. An angel with a great dick, great lips and great- eyes, skin, fucking  _chin_ , even.

He's clocked in serious hours thinking about every aspect of Derek's body, even the parts that he doesn't find appealing about everyone else.

Like his knees, for example. And the backs of them.

Like,  _really_? How can someone's knees be attractive? They're  _knees_.

And a heart of fucking gold, Stiles wants to believe- that underneath the cold, hard, 'I will rip your throat out with my teeth' exterior, he's really just a big, fluffy puppy that wants a cuddle and a chew-toy.

Or, uh. Not. There have been many,  _many_  times where Stiles has just given the fuck up on it entirely.

That he's thrown up his hands and went,  _okay, fuck this, you don't want me to be in your life anyway, sorry that your family is dead, don't let the door kick you in the ass on your way out_.

And then there are the times where Derek has that shattered, naked, blink-and-it's-gone expression that he gets sometimes when someone brings up Laura or Peter or basically anything about his past, really.

When he shoves someone out of the way that he shouldn't care about, shouldn't waste time over, let alone risk his life over them.

And then there was that night in the car- fuck, Stiles still remembers the exact angle of the light, the give of the steering wheel under his hands, the surprised, genuinely happy grin that had gone across Derek's face.

He remembers how the flash of teeth had stunned Stiles speechless- and how's  _that_  alliteration for you, his third-grade English teacher can go screw herself- and his mouth had possibly hung open slightly.

The grin had vanished as soon as it had come, and then it was back to Derek Sourwolf again (Stiles's personal nickname for him, one that has gotten his head slammed into a wall more than once), but Stiles had noticed how Derek's hand had lingered a second too long on his shoulder before getting out of the car that night.

His hand had been doing that a lot lately- lingering, he means. 

Stiles keeps inhaling sharply at the shock of the warm fingers against his neck, his arm, his knee. Soft touches, careless brushes as Derek passes, almost-but-not-really accidental.

Harsh shoves in the middle of an attack, yanking Stiles behind a wall or a shelf or even  _himself_ , once, that had ended up with Derek choking up blood and Stiles babbling about not damaging the vinyl.

There's always the denial, the shiver that splits his spine whenever Derek 'accidentally' touches him for too long, or holds his gaze without glaring, or leans too close.

And, yeah, Derek might have been ignoring Stiles's increasing dog jokes, even cracking a smile for a few of them, and  _fuck_  if that isn't a welcome surprise.

Derek goddamn Hale is the epitome of hot-and-cold. One day he's- okay, he's  _always_  stoic, but less than usual- and maybe smiles once or twice, cautiously, like he's letting himself. Then the next day, he's growling and stabbing Stiles with his elbow as he passes, and possibly breaking Erica's elbow during training that day.

See, they're not-

Or, they can't be-

It's not- 

Stiles can't even  _label_  this. He can't distinguish what the fuck he's feeling from one day to the next, from Derek's almost-tender fingers to his bruising grip.

A year ago, Stiles had just wanted to pass enough tests to graduate, to get off the bench on the lacrosse team, and maybe speak to Lydia without choking on his tongue.

That, of course, was before tripping through the woods at 3 a.m.

Before having to wash blood out of his clothes without his dad noticing, before Googling 'werewolf' under his desk during Chem class, before looking at Lydia like a possible friend rather than the love of his life.

Before going to sleep after thoughts of Derek's wrists and having dreams about his palms, about the feel of them over his hips, trailing downwards.

Before Jackson becoming less and less of an enemy and finally getting to the point where he doesn't get pushed into lockers and sometimes gets a nod in Gym.

Before dragging and being dragged, away from to-be crime scenes, and bloodied hands, and fang marks.

-

Stiles blinks, coming back to himself- his hands are locked against his knees, and he's on the porch.

Of course he's on the porch, he always seems to tune out on the fucking porch, what the hell is it about this  _porch_  that makes him-

"Stiles?"

He startles, and all too late realizes that he's been leaning backwards so the chair's front legs have come up off of the ground, and shifting this much will inevitably end in his face smooshing into the floor.

He tenses, preparing for the onslaught of splinters, but instead, he finds himself suspiciously... not falling.

"Uh."

Stiles looks up, and yep, there's Derek's hand around the chair, keeping him steady.

Nothing metaphorical about that at  _all_. And if they're talking about it, it's sort of the other way around, sort of, kind of, ish, not that a spastic teenager matters to the fucking alpha-

But Derek is almost smiling, his mouth twitching upwards, and okay, so this is one of the good days. "Too much adderall or not enough?"

"Nhggg," Stiles groans, letting himself (and the chair) be pushed back into position, hence not falling flat on his face. "Hate you."

"You're  _welcome_." Derek sits down in the seat next to him, a bit more heavily that he should, and Stiles raises his eyebrows questioningly.

Derek catches him looking, and rolls his shoulders until one of them pops. "I've been trying to find the new alpha's hideout."

"Really?" Stiles's mouth switches to autopilot, because fuck, he's  _tired_. Or maybe he's just a huge spaz today. "His hideout? Like, his lair? His  _evil_  lair? Do you think he has minions? Tiny, werewolf minions that appear from out of nowhere, and chomp viciously at your heels-"

"Is this the part where I tell you to shut up, or do I let you babble yourself out?"

Stiles taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Probably be better to put your hand over my mouth. Scott does it sometimes, when he wants to sleep and I won't shut up."

There is is again- the flicker of a smile, when Derek's too tired to fight it and Stiles is being especially moronic. "Whatever, Stiles. Do you want me to drive you home?"

Stiles almost says,  _I have the Jeep_ , but then remembers, oh, yeah, the crazy mutant-werewolf guy had beat the living shit out of it.

"That would be awesome, and I'd be eternally in your debt."

"You're already eternally in my debt," Derek says. "Do you know how many times I've saved your life? Because I don't. I lost count after, oh, let's say the eleventh?"

Stiles bites back a weary laugh and tries to think,  _he's an asshole, this is just a good day, don't let him get to you_.

Then he remembers how many times Derek has taken the bullet for him, has exposed his back to an attacker just to get him out of the way.

He remembers the shock on Derek's face the first time Stiles had asked,  _are you okay_ , and then the sharp shut-down of  _I'm fine, Stiles. Go home_.

How it had all played out on his face before he had the chance to stop it:  _why would you care_?

Not that Stiles had given him a reason to think he had cared, back then. Hell, he'd left him for dead more than once, but in his defence, he had been running for his life.

He remembers the new alpha, the one that had held him up by his neck until he had been seeing stars:  _You care too much, Stiles, my dear_.

How the alpha's lips had spread in that disturbing, thorny smile and had nodded towards the half-concious Derek, who had been dragging himself across the floor.  _It's something you and he have in common_.

Stiles knows he would have been confused at that, even just a few months ago, because it's  _Derek_ \- he only cares about himself, right? It's only him and what he can gain from  it.

But then there's Derek stitching himself up because no-one's there to do it for him, Derek over his sister's grave with glassy eyes, Derek with curled fists against the new threat, Derek shoving in front of whoever, whenever, to take the hits.

Derek living in the house that his family had died in, and how he hadn't stopped until Stiles had got the pack to drag him inside the Jeep to his house while there was a storm and there was a complete lack of ceiling at Derek's house.

He remembers the alpha, and how Derek had gotten himself stabbed to protect Lydia. He had healed in less than thirty seconds, but there had still been the pained scream, the blood dripping over his fingers, the pale tint of his skin.

"Earth to Stiles."

Stiles blinks, hard, and Erica is snapping her carefully-painted nails in front of his face.

She grins. "Nice of you to tune in. You coming?"

Stiles looks at her, then at Derek, then the car. "What?"

"Bowling, jackass," Jackson calls from the house. "We get half-off on Tuesdays."

Stiles opens his mouth to say no, but Derek interrupts him.

"I was just about to give him a ride home. Does anyone else-"

"We'll be fine, fearless leader." Isaac salutes him from the doorway, shrugging his jacket on. "Don't wait up."

Lydia shakes her hair over her shoulders as she walks out, and stops for a second as her gaze lands on Stiles. "Wow. You look horrible. So, are we going?"

Stiles represses another smile, and tries to remember where this had all got endearing instead of irritating. "I'm out. Derek's driving me home. You guys have a swell time."

Erica gives him a quick squeeze, her arm looping around his shoulders before dropping it. "We shall. See you in Bio."

Stiles groans loudly, letting his head flop backwards.

Then Derek's in his line of view, his head looming over his. "I'm going to take an educated guess and say that you're failing it?"

Stiles sits up. "No. There's a test. I haven't been paying attention for the last week. Werewolf stuff."

Derek's hand is suddenly on his cuff, pulling him up until he's standing. "You'll live. It's one test, you'll make it up. Do you have your things?"

Stiles glances around. "Nope. Left everything at school. Are we going now? I'd like to pass out in your car, rather than this lovely, freezing cold porch, where I can then get pneumonia. Your car is warm and cuddly. Like you."

Derek snorts as he follows him down the stairs, and it's then that Stiles realizes that he's said that last part out loud.

Any other time, he'd freak out about it, but now, he's tired and it's late and he has homework to... not complete. Or even start on.

When did being an honorary werewolf get to be so hard on his grades?

Derek waits until Stiles has opened the door and struggled into the car, buckling his seatbelt before he starts driving off.

A few minutes pass in silence, and Stiles counts the landmarks- the dairy on the corner, the bent lamppost- before Derek says, "You look really wiped out."

Stiles grunts into the carseat. "Mph. Didn't get much sleep last night. Also werewolf stuff. Research. You're welcome."

Derek starts to say something else, and Stiles realizes that he's been having a lot of 'good' days lately. No shoving him into walls or anything for at least a month.

He watches the steering wheel twist in his hands as they turn a corner, and he sags with it.

Neither of them are asking for this. This thing, whatever they have, even if it's just all made up inside his head.

They didn't ask for the sort-of friendship, the accidental 'so hey we're both almost getting killed by the same guy, do you want to team up so we stand a better chance of not getting our skulls brutally pounded into the dirt by a trigger-happy werewolf and/or hunter'.

Stiles presses his cheek against the window, and thinks of the rain through the patchy roof of Derek's house.

None of them asked for this, except for the half of the pack that  _wanted_  to be changed.

But they- Derek, Stiles- didn't ask for the whole 'friendship' thing.

Then what are they asking for?

Stiles thinks of claws at his throat, a hand at his elbow, fingers curling around his hoodie, pulling him out of the way. Hard to soft, sharp to giving, late-night shudders to leaning into a warm body after getting the crap kicked out of them.

Now that he thinks of it, they have been sort of organized lately. More coordinated- getting their favourite food without asking, knowing what TV channel to switch to, moving out of the way of the cupboard in the mornings because they know that Boyd will always go for the toaster, and Lydia gets pissy if she doesn't get coffee before 9 a.m.

A pack, even. A real one. And it's not stable, or healthy, but it's something. It's a start.

He remembers the alpha:  _You're alone, you know. You're not a pack. You're all disjointed, separate. You don't trust each other_. 

Stiles looks groggily over at Derek's solid hands, the sure line of his jaw, how he knows to avoid the pothole outside of Stiles's driveway.

_Give us time_ , he thinks.


End file.
